


A New Life

by riana_hawke



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blue-Purple Hawke, F/F, F/M, Family, Fluff and Angst, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Multi, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-20 14:53:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14896653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riana_hawke/pseuds/riana_hawke
Summary: Fenris' mother is due to arrive at Skyhold tomorrow, and he's been feeling uneasy and preoccupied all day. He knows Hawke has noticed. (Edited 12/20/2018)





	1. Chapter 1

"What's on your mind?"

Hawke was looking at Fenris intently from where she sat with their son, Marcus, a few seats down on the other side of the long dining table. Her question was almost drowned out by the conversation that filled the Great Hall and echoed off its vaulted ceiling.

He knew what he wanted to say, but this was not the right time or place for it.

Fenris shook his head and gave his mutton stew an aimless stir. "I will tell you later."

"Sure, love." Hawke smiled, a slight curve of her lips, then turned to wipe a trail of stew and breadcrumbs from Marcus' face and rejoin a debate with the pair of scouts seated to her right.

 

~*~

 

The night air was brisk and carried the scent of arbor blessing. Fenris and Hawke walked back to their room with Marcus skipping along ahead of them, singing a tuneless song to himself. As they rounded a corner in the arcade facing the garden, he stopped, as if transfixed by a sudden idea, and ran back.

"Do ravens eat cake?"

"Oh?" replied Hawke, as they kept walking. "Well, they eat meat, mostly, and fruits, and nuts."

"Do they eat spice cake?" Marcus had eaten half a slice at dinner. It had clearly made an impression on him.

"I don't know. Why don't we ask Leliana tomorrow?"

Marcus looked up at Fenris. "Daddy, you said ravens eat lots of things."

So he remembered what he'd taught him last week in the rookery. Good. "Yes, they do, but we have to ask their keepers first before feeding them. They might not agree."

"But cake is nice! I want to give them a present."

"That's very generous of you, sweetheart," said Hawke. "It's just that not everyone wants and needs the same things as you do. The ravens need to have enough energy to fly a very long way. Can you imagine how far it is to Nevarra? Could you fly there on cake crumbs?"

Marcus shook his head.

"You have to think very carefully about other people when you give them things, not just about what you think would be nice for yourself."

He considered this for a moment.

"Baron Plucky wants to bite people. But he likes playing with string. He won't bite people if he's got a string."

He seemed to be saying this to himself more than to his parents, since he ran up to the stairs without waiting for a reply, while making cawing noises.

"Strange child," said Hawke, fondly. Then she noticed Fenris' deadpan expression. "Oh, don't give me that. He's yours, too."

Once they returned to their room, Hawke and Fenris helped Marcus clean his teeth and change into the oversized nightshirt he was meant to grow into. Behind the divider, beyond Fenris' view, Hawke sat by his bedside and narrated another adventure of the Black Fox as he giggled and exclaimed in disbelief. Fenris listened as he sorted through the scattered writing supplies that had been neglected these past few days. A salt-stained packet from Isabela that had contained letters for both himself and Hawke and for Marcus, with much tamer drawings on one than on the other. Unfinished correspondence from him to Aveline and Hawke to Merrill -- those would have to wait. He folded and slid the letters upright between two of the books that lined the back of the desk.

He heard Marcus say good night, Hawke's reply and kiss, and the rustle of legs kicking beneath a heavy quilt. It looked to be one of those nights when no bedtime would be too late for Marcus. Fenris had already lit a candle, squat and melted into a caldera around the wick, and left it in a dish on the floor next to Marcus' bed. Both to allay his fear of the dark and to provide him with enough light to make shadow puppets on the ceiling.

"So, where to, love?"

"Hmm?" Fenris glanced up and made eye contact.

Hawke was now idly tapping one of the short posts at the end of their bed. Her other hand rested on the curve of her belly, which was covered by a loose dress and a long jacket. She had said she'd chosen the jacket for its ability to flap dramatically in the breeze, which occurred often when they climbed the battlements to watch the clouds at sunset and the constellations in the night sky.

"Thought you wanted to tell me something."

Ah. Yes. That.

"We could go for a walk," she went on, "or what about the Herald's Rest? I'm still a bit hungry, to be honest. Could go for another bite."

"I have no preference. As long as we're somewhere quiet."

"That can be arranged." She squeezed his shoulder and crossed to the door.

Fenris continued adjusting the box of quills and ink until it was parallel to the books. He waited until his mind was clear, then went to join Hawke outside.

 

~*~

 

The Herald's Rest was full most nights since the Inquisition had returned from Halamshiral. Fenris had to excuse himself through the crowd waiting for their drinks in order to get to the bar, where he ordered two cold barley teas and a plate of whatever was available. After finding an unoccupied stretch of wall and bracing one foot against it, not in the mood to strike up a conversation with anyone, he listened to Maryden warming up with Hawke, who had retrieved her lute from a trunk and was sitting next to her. They burst into laughter over a joke Fenris couldn't make out. He turned his head and saw Maryden reach across to tune a few of Hawke's strings.

Eventually, Cabot called out Fenris' name and slid a plate and two mugs down the length of the bar. He gathered them up and made his way over to Hawke. He caught her eye; she nodded and excused herself. The first few notes of "Rise" floated upward as they climbed the stairs to the second floor of the tavern.

There was a game of diamondback underway at one of the tables near Sera's room. She was joined by Krem, Varric, and Cole. Judging by the piles of loose change, Krem was ahead, with Varric close behind him.

Hawke waved hello and sidled over to them, still carrying her lute. "Got them again, Krem?"

"Fourth night this week," he said, chuckling. "I have some real luck going here. Either that, or--"

"Yeah, all right, Whomp Mallet. Not losing my touch. Watch me," said Sera. She kept her narrowed eyes trained on the pairs of cards and bets laid out on the table.

"Evening, everyone." Fenris greeted the group as he passed by. There was an empty table near the far corner that he wanted to claim before anyone else could.

"Hey, Fenris. Joining us for the next round?" asked Varric, an arm slung over the back of his chair. Hawke was leaning an elbow on the backrest, as well, as if she were prepared to hear him answer with a "yes" and was already starting to settle in. Perhaps she thought he would only be ready to speak his mind after a round of cards and easy laughter had relaxed the tension strung through him.

He felt a prickle of irritation at Hawke; he had never felt pitied by her, but there were times when he wished she would think less about what he might need. When he wished she would leave him be -- he told her as much -- and face her own inner gloom rather than plaster it over. She had been taking better care of herself since her return from Weisshaupt, though, and had let him help her more often. Fenris told himself that he should focus on that.

"Thank you," he said, "but no. Not tonight." He cleared his throat. "I... must be going."

Varric shifted back to his cards with a shrug. "We've got space here if you change your mind."

Fenris departed to the sound of banter between Sera, Varric, and Krem, and Cole saying something to Hawke in an anxious tone. Or perhaps he was addressing Krem. By then, Fenris was too far away to tell.

The empty table was in front of a window, with benches rather than chairs on either side of it. Fenris crumbled a piece of bread between his fingers and sank into his thoughts, staring at the waxing moon and stars that shone bright between the clouds.

Hawke joined him a short while later. She eased herself onto the seat across from him, setting her lute down beside her. Her face and her dark waves and curls, tied back by a strip of patterned cloth, were warmed by the golden glow of candlelight.

"Thanks, Fen. Looks delicious." She cut a thick wedge of pear and topped it with smoked cheese, then bit in with a satisfied moan. Fenris had never known her to eat with anything but gusto, unless she was ill. Her current state had only intensified that.

"So, I don't imagine you heard what Cole just said." Hawke was now hovering over the bread that had been casually tossed onto the platter. She selected a seed-crusted roll and broke it apart so she could fill it with more slices of pear and cheese.

"No, I did not." Fenris took an apple for himself. Crisp, and very sweet.

"Something about a bird," said Hawke, slowly. "All reds and blues against a deep green. Nobody else knew what he meant by it."

"Seheron." Fenris glanced at Hawke, then looked away.

He hated it when Cole stepped into his mind like that.

Sometimes he found memories -- feelings -- that Fenris had not even realized were there. They had not yet surfaced. Cole plucked them from where they drifted, just below the waterline, and handed them to him like gasping, slapping fish, begging to be thrown back.

Hawke had stopped eating. "I thought so."

"I was no older than Marcus is now. Varania and I ran into the jungle after a parrot we had been keeping until its wing healed. I fell and scraped my knees on a tree root, and as I picked myself up, I saw the parrot gliding above us in the highest reaches of the canopy, before it disappeared." Fenris rolled his tea mug back and forth as he spoke.

"It must have been beautiful."

"Yes. It was. I cried. I don't know whether it was because of the injury or the bird."

He took a bite of the apple and chewed and swallowed before he spoke again. It bought him time to think.

"It's already fading from my mind. They all are. The memories return with such intensity, and then they begin to change shape when I think of them, and when I don't. Just the same as all the others."

Hawke watched his expression and waited before speaking. "We could ask Cole to find another way. He cares about you, Fen. He thinks he's helping."

"I suppose…" Fenris trailed off, staring out through the window again. "He might be. I can't say. I'll speak with him about it myself."

Fenris bit his lip. He drank a long gulp of tea and stared down at a dark, smoothed knot in the wood of the table.

"All right, make room." Hawke began to push herself into a standing position, unable to hide the amount of effort it took. She had suffered from back pain for the past month despite her and the other medics' use of healing magic and herbs. The relief was temporary at best, like the hot compresses Fenris applied for her several times a day.

"Wait. Let me." He got up and rounded the table to sit beside her. A string twanged against his fingers as he placed her lute on the table, where it sat like an aged tortoise with a shell scarred by claws and rough surf.

Hawke took his hand in hers and stroked the outer edge of it with her thumb. Neither of them said anything for some time.

"It's tomorrow, isn't it?" said Hawke, finally. "That's what you wanted to talk about."

Fenris answered with a low hum.

They had received a letter four days ago about his mother, Lusia. Similar letters had arrived over the past few months, ever since they had sent the one asking her to come live with them, each word painstakingly chosen. A short message from her, in the handwriting of one of Leliana's agents, saying that her affairs were in order and she would be leaving the next day with what was by all appearances a diplomatic convoy to Nevarra. A note from a second Inquisition agent reporting that she had disembarked at Jader and refused to follow the plan and stay there until the war ended. She was demanding to see her son. She would be at the army camp near Skyhold within a week.

There was much he had meant to say at dinner, but as Fenris opened his mouth now, the words evaporated on his tongue. He realized he and Hawke had already resolved half of it when they'd discussed the matter in these past weeks, and the other half was the same pointless worries, diminished but still present, that neither Hawke nor anyone else would be able to assuage.

His reply, when it came, was simple. "I have tried not to think too much on it, and failed. There's little we can do to prepare that we haven't already done."

They had been allocated another empty guest room down the veranda. A bed with fresh sheets and blankets, a clothes chest, a desk and chair. Fenris had swept the floor and cleaned the cobwebs out of the corners earlier in the day. Almost to an obsessive degree. An old habit. The few rooms he had used in the Hightown mansion had been cleanest whenever his mind was ill at ease.

Hawke nodded. "Best welcome we can give. I'm coming with you, by the way."

Fenris' brow furrowed. "Hawke. You're in--"

"Pardon me, serah," she said, letting go of his hand and retrieving her food from the plate. "But I'm pretty sure I'm the best judge of that. It's an hour there and back. I can manage it." She took a bite of the stuffed bread.

"I..." He was at a loss.

Hawke covered her mouth as she spoke, to avoid a spray of crumbs. "Don't worry about me, love. I want to be there. I'll do what it takes."

"...all right."

She smiled at him through closed lips. Then a shadow of concern crossed her face. She swallowed.

"That is, unless you don't--"

"I do," said Fenris. "I want you there. And Marcus."

Fenris tended not to show affection toward Hawke in public spaces. Although Hawke was far less private than him by nature, she had told him she understood why he felt the way he did. What was between them, how he felt toward her and how he wished to express it, was not meant for others' eyes, regardless of the nature of their gaze.

They were unlikely to have an audience now, at least. Here, on the second floor of the Herald's Rest, the other patrons' eyes were trained on each other, on mugs of bad ale, on the words and images they were carving into wooden surfaces with daggers, on what might be winning pairs of cards.

Before he could change his mind, Fenris leaned over and kissed Hawke on the cheek. She breathed in with a small, sharp noise of surprise.

A whisper beside her ear. Her lips pressing gently against his before he sat back.

"Whatever comes of this," he said, "I know that it was the right choice. I have found happiness now, with who I am and what we have together. My mother will see this."

 

~*~

 

Fenris slept poorly that night. He woke in the deepest hour and sat on the edge of the bed, chin in hand.

In a small room off the arcade that faced the garden, he entered the shrine to Andraste and lit a candle by the light of the moon. The stone floor was cool against the bare soles of his feet. He knelt and emptied his mind of all but a few chosen words and the feelings for which there were none.

When he returned, taking off his shirt and climbing back into bed, Hawke stirred beside him. She murmured his name and traced a warm, callused hand down his lower back until it came to rest on his hip. Her magic left a pleasant sensation in the wake of her touch, along the glowing lines of his lyrium markings; a gesture and response that held years of trust and intimacy. He lay down, with the swell of her stomach between them, and they spoke with the strange mixture of vagueness and clarity that comes late at night.

Fenris tried to recall what he could of that exchange when they rose with the sun to wake Marcus and prepare for the day ahead of them. He was unsure whether Hawke remembered any of it. Somehow he felt that the answer was irrelevant. He knew they had meant what they said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to kadaransmuggler and CelticGrace over at fanfiction.net for beta reading!  
> See you next week! :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who's rereading (in which case, yay!): I edited "avia" to "grandmother" because it seemed more respectful for Fenris to wait for Lusia to choose what she wanted to be called, rather than assume she'd use the Tevene word he remembered.

It was almost time to leave, and Fenris was scrubbing at a jam stain on the knee of Marcus’ breeches. Raspberry. A stubborn splotch of purplish red against blue everknit wool. Fenris had swiftly decided that this would be the last time his son was allowed to wear his best clothes to breakfast. He would make himself immune to wheedling. He would not allow himself to be melted by enormous, hopeful eyes.

“Leave it, Fen. You’re just going to grind the stain in further.” Hawke was standing behind him, adjusting her braids for the tenth time. She’d said her mother used to style and pin them up in this way, but she couldn’t remember whether this one went over, that one went under, or how in the Maker’s name she’d gotten them all to stay in place.

Fenris shook his head and stood up again, then dropped the soapy kitchen towel he’d been using onto the back of the desk chair. “He’ll be wearing a long cloak. That will have to suffice.” 

Meanwhile, Marcus had climbed down from the chair and onto the rug, where, for reasons beyond Fenris’ comprehension, he began hopping about on all fours. He ribbitted as his father gathered him into his lap to tie on his snow boots.

“Are you Marcus, or a frog?” asked Fenris, already tired of this game.

“Frog.” He stuck out his tongue.

“Then I suppose you’ll be staying in the garden and going for swim in the fountain.”

“No! I’m Marcus!” Then, as if he were giving some actual consideration to his father's offhand comment, he added: “I’m not a frog until later.”

A sigh of despair came from behind them, followed by a series of tiny plinks. Fenris turned and saw Hawke dropping pins into a ceramic case on the desk as her braids fell from her head one by one. She combed her hair out with her fingers and began to redo it at a furious pace. By the time Fenris had finished lacing up Marcus’ boots, set him on his feet, and told him to go finish getting ready, Hawke’s hair hung in a single loose braid. Her face was still creased with irritation as she eased on her heavy, hooded cloak.

Marcus pulled his own hood down so that it covered his eyes and began to swivel to and fro. His cloak did, thankfully, hide the jam stain. 

“Mum- _my_. Are we going yet?” he whined.

“Patience, little bee.” Hawke pinned her cloak with a circle of twisted silverite inlaid with amber-gold glass. She exchanged a look with Fenris, who had been fastening his boots. He slipped a small drawstring bag from the desk into his pocket, then stepped forward and adjusted Hawke’s ornament before touching his forehead to hers. With his eyes closed, there was nothing else in his world but the slow rhythm of their breath and the scent of her perfume.

The moment was broken by Marcus tugging insistently at Hawke’s cloak.

“You have to be on your best behavior,” said Fenris, as they descended the stairs, with Hawke holding Marcus’ hand. “Your grandmother has traveled a long way and is meeting a lot of new people. She will be very tired. You must not overwhelm her.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you hear me, Marcus?”

“Yes, Daddy,” he replied, in a tone that suggested the opposite. He pulled away and jumped down the last few steps, then skipped across the courtyard so he would be the first one to the portcullis.

Keeping his eyes trained on his son up ahead, Fenris fiddled with his burgundy knit hat. A Wintersend gift from Varric that, according to more than a few people here, very much suited him. He wanted to look his best today. Perhaps it would quell his nerves.

 

~*~

 

On the rocky banks of the river, outside one of the round, thatched houses that had begun to replace the scattering of army tents over the past year, a young dwarven man sat with a grey-muzzled mabari. The man appeared to be feeding his dog leftovers from a tin plate. A muffled squawking came from the chicken coop out back.

“Edgar!” Fenris called out.

He looked up and waved. Fenris picked up Marcus as he and Hawke crossed the bridge that spanned a narrow stretch of the river. The water that flowed beneath it was a translucent blue and bore chunks of ice even in the marginal warmth of summer.

“It’s a fine morning, isn’t it?” Edgar smiled and pointed his thumb toward the edge of camp. “She’s that way. Go on, we can visit later. Go on!”

The camp smelled of cooking fires and heavy, savory fare. As they headed in the direction Edgar had indicated, weaving their way between sheepskin tents and wooden cabins painted with swirling designs of horses, bears, and great spike-backed fish, Fenris realized that Marcus had gone silent after chattering almost the entire way down the mountain. He adjusted his son so that he sat higher in his arms and kissed his red, wind-chapped cheek.

“Look, there’s Dervla’s house,” said Fenris. “Would you like to come back tomorrow and play with her?”

Marcus nodded, more solemn than he should have been at the mention of his friend.

Someone gripped Fenris’ other arm as they passed a house painted with a teal and white ram. It was Hawke, and she was staring at the fire pit near the door. Or, more accurately, at the people gathered around it. Fenris followed her line of sight as a sudden tightness took hold of his chest. He set Marcus down and led him forward.

Three elven women sat on benches around the fire, eating bowls of pottage with vegetables and meat. Two of them were conversing with each other in accents that suggested they were from Halamshiral. From their ages, Fenris guessed that they were craftspeople or merchants, or relatives of new volunteers. The third sat on the next bench over, by herself, staring at an unknown point beyond the house as she ate. Maybe sixty years old, and wrapped in a dark cloak and a bulky, moss-colored scarf. Her straight hair was drawn back in a braided knot, black and streaked with gray. Skin a shade darker than Fenris’, with the same underlying hue. The same nose, mouth, and chin; a similar tilt and shape of her ears. Eyes that were large and green, like his own, and Marcus’. Hawke would remark to him later that the resemblance made her heart stop.

“Mother.”

The word came out far quieter than he'd intended.

The woman in the dark cloak turned her head in their direction. Her eyes traveled from Fenris, to Marcus, to Hawke.

For a long moment, she was completely still.

Then, after setting her bowl and spoon down on the bench, she stood and approached. She stopped three paces from them and spoke in a voice that Fenris strained to recognize. There was a warmth to it that rendered her words less sharp and more affectionate.

“You must be my son. You’ve always had such a slouch. Look at those stooped shoulders.”

Upon saying this, she took another step forward and reached up as if meaning to adjust his posture, but then halted. There may have been a tremble on one side of her face; Fenris may have imagined it.

Hawke glanced between her and Fenris with an awkward grin. “I’ve been telling him the same thing for years.”

He straightened up slightly, squaring his shoulders. This was not lost on either of the women. They exchanged looks of amusement and wary interest.

As the two other women at the fire pit excused themselves, hiding their smiles, Lusia took another step closer. Marcus stared at her while holding tight to his father’s hand.

“Hello. Are you Marcus?” She did not crouch down to his level. Fenris had noticed a stiffness to her gait.

“Say hello to your grandmother.” From the corner of his eye, Fenris saw his mother shift, a flicker of response to the last word.

Inexplicably, Marcus squirmed away and hid behind his leg, peeking out at her. He said nothing.

Something in Lusia’s expression faltered. A slipping of her brows, a fold appearing between them.

“I’m sorry,” said Fenris, as his heart dropped into his stomach. He reached back to gently take hold of Marcus and tousle his curls. “He was excited earlier this morning. He almost ran down the mountain to meet you.”

That seemed to reassure her somewhat. “Not to worry,” she replied.

“Uh…” Fenris searched for his shirt pocket, inside the folds of his cloak. He held out the drawstring bag to her in the palm of his hand. “This is for you. From us.”

“Oh. Thank you.” She took the bag and examined the dotted grey samite and yellow ribbon before she tugged it open and tipped the contents into her other hand.

It was—they were—three combs, meant to be worn as ornaments. Each was carved from the same sliver of dragonbone but inlaid with a different material along the oblong edge. Glittering drops of dawnstone; rich, murky shards of phoenix scale; flowing malachite, glossy and shot through with dark stripes.

The way his mother inspected them made Fenris recall a recent day when Marcus had brought him a flower made of split peas, glued to a square plank of wood with porridge that must have been scraped from the breakfast cauldron. He knew the comparison was absurd. A grown man’s craftwork and a child’s playtime. But he wondered if he had been appreciative enough. If he had ever been, throughout the flood of drawings and babbled stories that Marcus had been presenting his parents with since he’d been given his first stick of chalk as a baby. It was not in Fenris’ nature to be as effusive as Hawke. He knew that was not a fault, per se, but he resolved to try harder. In case Marcus needed him to.

“Where did you find these?” his mother asked.

Fenris suppressed the urge to fiddle with his hat again. “There are slow days at the forge.”

At this, her mouth formed a silent _oh_ and the line between her brows reappeared. She slid the combs back into the bag, which she then stored somewhere inside her cloak. Her voice was much softer when she met her son’s eyes and said, “I’ve never seen anything like them.”

Hawke grasped Fenris’ gloved hand in hers and gave it a light squeeze.

“Well. You’ve been standing there long enough,” said Lusia. She motioned for them to sit down with her. “Would you like something to eat? It must have been a long walk from Skyhold.”

Fenris considered the irony of that statement coming from the woman who had just traveled across the length of Thedas. That is, until he saw her reach for Hawke’s elbow as she lowered herself onto the bench next to hers. Hawke placed her hands on her belly and hip and closed her eyes in the way that she did when she was granted a short, blissful reprieve from the strain of carrying eight months’ weight.

Fenris rubbed her back in small circles while they spoke with Lusia. For his part, Marcus was distracted by a mug of hot cider, fragrant with spices. He accepted it from his grandmother with a wide-eyed expression that, Fenris thought, was less timid than even a few minutes ago.

“You’re the one who helped my son kill Danarius.”

“Oh—ah, yes, that was me.”

“How much longer?”

“Just a few weeks now. Marcus was early, though, so we’ll see.”

A pause.

“May I ask what to call you?”

“Mother, I should think.”

“Right, of course, yes.”

A wry smile.

"...Lusia is also fine."

Fenris was content to listen and not participate as they discussed her journey. In truth, he found his eyes sliding away every time he tried to focus on his mother, to examine her features. She asked him no questions. Not directly.

Once she had finished eating while Hawke described their arrangement at Skyhold, Lusia stood and made her way over to the house, briefly disappearing into the dark interior. She returned to the fire pit with a canvas pack slung over her shoulder.

“I’m ready to leave when you are.”

Fenris washed her bowl and spoon and Marcus’ empty mug in a pail near the far bench. He had assumed his mother was continuing her curious rapprochement with Marcus, considering the lack of conversation with Hawke, but when he stood up again, he saw that Hawke was fixing a toggle on Marcus’ cloak, and his mother was standing off to his side.

There was no chance for him to move away. Lusia stepped closer and took hold of him, concentrating on his face as if she were searching for something, someone. Her fingers touched the edge of his white hair, which was nearly hidden by his hat. Then she tightened her lips into a taut line and pulled him into an embrace. He returned it after an instant’s hesitation. She was more delicate than she looked, beneath the outerwear that protected her from the cold southern wind. He thought of the joint pain she had mentioned in their correspondence, the stiffness he had just seen, and what Hawke and the other medics had said about brittle bones, hot water bottles, poultices applied with a cooling touch.

His mother stood back and patted his arm, and gazed out somewhere into the forest of buildings and tents, or perhaps farther. Then she picked up her pack from the frozen ground and started walking.

  
 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's read/subscribed to/left feedback on this fic series since way back in March. You've helped me keep going when I didn't think I could write any further, despite having way too many feels about Hawke and Fenris and needing to do something with them. Which, well, if you're reading this, I'm sure you know what that's like. ^v^;; Anyway, here's the last chapter of this story. Hope you enjoy!

_So Korth spoke to the Lady of the Skies and lifted Belenas from the earth—_

Fenris’ reading was interrupted by a tiny sneeze.

He tilted his head down at Carina, whose pudgy cheek was pressed against the cloth draped over his shoulder.

“All is well?”

A drowsy blink, and then another. She was as mellow as her brother had been at her age, rarely given to fussing except when she needed to be changed or fed. For the latter reason, Fenris hoped the meeting in the war room would conclude soon.

It was Hawke's first since giving birth ten weeks earlier. An afternoon meeting to discuss the progress of a few operations and coordinate the logistics for the campaign to the Valley of Sacred Ashes. She had insisted on being there. Time was short and there was much to do; and besides, she was bored out of her skull these days. Hawke had laughed when she told him that. Bit of a flippant approach to a matter of life and death, wasn't it? Especially considering that this was a grudge match for her. But as with so many times before, she had become far more sober when the real work began. Fenris had seen the practical, crafty shift in her features when she and Josephine had discussed the challenges ahead of them. Hawke had been sitting in a comfortable spot on the rug as she did so, with Carina fidgeting about on her tummy beside her. Once they'd finished preparing for the meeting, Josephine had joined her and cooed over the baby's little fingers and toes.

Fenris nuzzled the top of his daughter’s head, sweet-smelling and fluffy with curls, and went back to reading. From outside in the Great Hall came the delighted screeches of Marcus and Dervla, who, last he had seen, were being spun across the flagstones in a crate by The Iron Bull and Krem. They had just woken from their nap, before which they had gone on a long, exhausting adventure as Garahel and Isseya. Exhausting for Fenris, that is, seeing as he and Blackwall had once again been enlisted to play griffons and carry them around Skyhold.

Lusia had flattened herself against the wall of a corridor as they had dashed through, unable to slow down in time after skidding around a corner. She had been holding a basket of baking ingredients collected from a supply cart—having noted in a sardonic tone, a month earlier, that she had been informed this was a favored activity of grandmothers. Marcus was usually eager for the chance to help. More specifically, the chance to lick the bowls after he’d sounded out the words in the recipe book for his nana (as she had asked to be called) and cleaned up the mess on the table.

It was perhaps too soon to say whether they were a family. In form, yes. But in feeling, that was another matter. For these first few months, Fenris had mulled over every awkward pause in conversations with his mother, all the possible moments of miscommunication, the areas where their personalities clashed or were so similar that they became hypocritically irritated with each other. Yet there had also been moments that had broken through the slow pace of their everyday lives and brought them nearer to the peace they were seeking. Closeness, after having been torn apart half a lifetime ago.

Carina’s birth had been one of them. Another had occurred close to where Fenris sat now, on the afternoon that his mother had arrived.

“This is Josephine’s office,” he had said, as he opened the door and ushered her inside. Lunch was long over, her belongings deposited in her room, the windows opened to let in the fresh air from the garden. Fenris had been pleased when she agreed with his suggestion of a tour of Skyhold.

“Did she say she was the ambassador?” asked Lusia. She was making a leisurely circuit of the room, much the same as she’d done on the rest of the tour.

“Yes. I believe she’s in a meeting with Morris and Angharad right now. They're the quartermasters. It’s not a problem for us to be here uninvited. She’s told me as much before.”

At Josephine's desk, he picked up a pile of papers; his hands trembled with nerves. "I've been working on a few operations here myself. These letters are from contacts I've made in Minrathous and Vyrantium through Leliana's agents. They're involved in building networks among the liberati and those of us still enslaved. I'm not sure of the extent of their activity, but from the counsel they've sought so far, I think they may be organizing a rebellion or gradual sabotage of the Magisterium. Perhaps both. I intend to continue working with them after we leave Skyhold and lend what knowledge and resources I can."

Fenris sorted through the letters as the words continued to pour out of him. "These reports here are of Venatori activity. Most of the planning to combat them is being done in the field, but in some cases diplomacy and more long-term strategy have been required. Most recently in Wycome, where we lived several years ago. We received word from a Dalish Keeper who Hawke and I had met, saying that her clan and the elves in the alienage were being threatened by the local nobles. They were blamed for a plague that was in fact red lyrium poisoning, carried out by those same nobles and the Venatori. You may have heard of the outcome. There was an uprising, and the city is now governed by a council of two elves and two humans. When we received the last news, after weeks of uncertainty and fear, I reread this letter perhaps a dozen times to be sure of it. I've gradually become more involved in meetings since we've settled in to– Oh. What's this?"

A blank sheet of paper, surprisingly enough; he turned it over. The other side was covered in a large pastel drawing of him with The Iron Bull and his Chargers, playing with what appeared to be blocks. There was a small figure perched on Krem's shoulders. 

"This must be Marcus' doing," said Fenris, with a wry grin. He showed the drawing to his mother. "I let him stay up late at the Herald's Rest on a few occasions while Hawke was away. We taught him how to shuffle and choose cards. Until he became overexcited and started to run circles around us. Admittedly, the idea may have been unwise in the first place. I am still -- there is much that I..." His grin faltered.

"I know that feeling well," said Lusia, quietly, without taking her eyes from the letters and the drawing. 

Fenris flicked through the backs of the other papers. "He must have drawn this while I was working one day. He draws more or less all of the time. You had a glimpse of it earlier. The supplies are a strain on our purse, at the rate he goes through them, but he has such enthusiasm, and I want him to be able to..."

A sniff caused him to taper off mid-sentence and look over at Lusia. Her face was beginning to crumple as tears rolled down her cheeks. She covered her mouth with her hand.

“Mother--”

Fenris dropped the papers back onto the desk and caught her by the shoulders in a clumsy gesture. It seemed like she was trying to speak, but the words came out mangled, and so he said nothing in reply, only held her as she folded into him and wept.

“I had thought--” she began, as they sat down and she dabbed at her face with the clean handkerchief he offered, “I had thought that I would come here and at least try. I told myself it didn’t matter who you were now, all I needed was to see you, and if we parted afterward despite my efforts then so be it. I would be out of Minrathous. That was enough. I’ve been alone before. Although I so wanted to--”

She took a deep breath through her nose and exhaled.

“You aren’t Leto. I knew that from the first moment. But you  _are my son_ ,” she said, her expression growing firmer as she looked him directly in the eyes. “Even knowing you for less than a day, there is nothing you could do to make me prouder of you than I already am.” 

The recollection of that day made Fenris’ eyes sting. He put down the book, realizing that his mind had been wandering from the page and he had lost the thread of the story.

“Still sleepy, little one?”

At the sound of her father’s voice, Carina wiggled an arm and leg inside the blanket that covered her. Its rust-red dye had faded, and there were a few inexpertly mended holes in the knitting, but it was still recognizable as the same one that had been wrapped around Marcus when he was as small as his sister. It had taken some convincing for him to lend it to her, seeing as he still cuddled with it every night.

Carina peered up at Fenris with her round green eyes and gummed at the collar of his tunic.

He had never thought he could love anyone as much as he loved Hawke, and then as much as he loved their son.

By now, it seemed almost foolish how often he had doubted the capacity of his own heart.

A long, echoing creak from the corridor broke through the silence. Then came footfalls and low conversation that grew louder and stopped the instant that the door to the office was pushed open.

Hawke was the first to enter the room, ahead of Leliana and Cullen, who kept walking toward the opposite door. By their polite nods and stiff demeanors, Fenris would wager that they had been in the middle of an argument.

“Hello, loves, how’ve you been?” asked Hawke, with a weary smile.

“No disasters yet,” Fenris replied.

Meanwhile, the door to the corridor shut with a thud. The two muted voices resumed their quarrel almost immediately.

“As usual,” said Hawke, indicating them with a jerk of her head. She carried the other armchair over to Fenris and settled herself in.

Fenris transferred the baby into her outstretched arms and placed the cloth on her shoulder. “Any news on when the army marches?”

“A matter of days now. And then we wait.”

“Indeed.”

“During which I will be spending every second with you.” Hawke kissed Carina on the forehead to make it clear whom she was addressing.

“Hmm? None left for me, amata?”

“In all probability.” He recognized the tone in which she said this. Far too breezy to be a careless joke with nothing beneath it.

Fenris tilted his head and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, lingering on her jaw. “Are you sure?”

“Well... I might spare a few.”

She kissed his palm. Her lips were soft; he knew they would taste of beeswax and lavender tonight, when they were back in their room. That is, on the off-chance that they managed to do anything besides mumble to each other. There were precious few hours of sleep available between Carina’s cries, and they tried to make the most of them.

The door swung open again with a groan. Fenris withdrew and craned his neck to see who had walked into the office. Unsurprisingly, it was Josephine and the Inquisitor, Danra Cadash.

Hawke waved Carina’s arm in greeting. “Mind if we sit here a while?”

“Oh, please do,” said Josephine. Fenris couldn’t tell if she meant it or was just trying to be gracious. Judging by their flushed faces, she and Danra had also been seeking privacy, back in the corridor.

“Wish I could stay,” Danra added, “but I’m leading sword and shield training with Cassandra and I can't exactly show up like this.”

She gestured at her long leather gloves and boots and silken shirt worn under a jerkin. They were carefully styled, well-fitted, and complemented her warm brown eyes and umber skin—Fenris would expect no less from someone who had grown up in her parents' tailor shop, until they suddenly passed on—but offered little protection and wouldn’t last long in the grass and dirt of the practice field.

“Of course,” said Josephine, trying to sound businesslike. “Until later, then.” 

Danra's smile as she let go of Josephine's hand carried the same understated confidence that Fenris had sensed on the day they met. It had been useful in her former life as a spy and had ended up working to her advantage here. She was young and seemed overwhelmed at times, but would not be easily led or intimidated. She also had a reputation for being thoughtful and well-informed; Fenris could attest to the accuracy of it, although, given how often she was gone from Skyhold, he reflected that he still did not know her as well as he would like. Perhaps he would have more chances to speak with Danra over a meal or a game of cards, or even another game of backgammon with Marcus, once all this...

The door closed behind her with a thump that shook Josephine (and Fenris) out of a brief reverie. The ambassador's cheeks remained crimson as she crossed to her desk and took an unopened letter from the top of her to-do stack. “Thank you for joining us today, Hawke, your contributions were most valuable. Are you in need of anything?”

“No, but I think this one might be soon,” said Hawke. “Absolutely ravenous. I mean, at least I’m not sore and bleeding anymore, but at the rate she's feeding I’ll be drained dry by the time everyone’s back. ‘Huzzah, we’ve kicked Corypheus straight into the Void! Oh, what’s this? Is it Hawke, or a strip of dried rations? I really can’t tell. Should we have a nibble and find out?’”

Josephine raised her eyebrows. “That is quite an image.”

“Yes, well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to pass. I’m much more pleasant when fully hydrated, wouldn’t you say, Fen?”

He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or grimace, and so he did both.

For a while, the room was quiet except for the scratching of a quill across sheets of parchment, the crisp turning of pages, and the humming of a familiar song.

This peaceful atmosphere was then shattered by two small children who burst through the door and ran over to Fenris.

“Uncle Fenris! Did you know? Did you know?”

“What, Dervla? Keep your hands to yourself.” He was forced to drop his book onto the stack near his chair, and tried not to become irritated with them for it. Once again, he found himself bewildered by the sheer quantity of energy that could be contained within a five-year-old’s body.

“Did you know?” Marcus chimed in, bouncing up and down with excitement.

“Did I know what?”

“Nana had an ig-gonna! He was like this” --he mimed what might have been spikes cascading from his head-- “and he had feets with claws and a long tail and a--”

“Spot! On his face!” Dervla interrupted.

“As big as Frederick!” Marcus was referring to the painted rock that lived on the desk in his grandmother’s room. Now his room, as well, since the birth of his sister.

“Oh, my,” said Fenris. “He must have been fearsome to behold.”

Marcus shrugged. “No, he just ate fruits and then they went swimming.”

“He sounds lovely,” said Hawke, who was unfastening her shirt to feed an increasingly restless Carina. “What did you say he was, again?”

“An iguana. On Seheron.”

The answer came from the edge of the room, where Lusia leaned an arm against the doorframe.

“I was just telling them how I lived on my family's farm when I was their age. The same one where you were born.”

“Ah, I see.”

She had told Fenris as much in the weeks after her arrival. There was someone else, now, who remembered how he had fed an injured parrot from his own hand, and had limped home and curled up in his mother’s lap on the day it flew away, with his knees bandaged for a week afterward. She had only passed along stories from those early years, however. As much as Fenris wanted answers about what had come afterward, and about his father and what he himself had been like before his lyrium brands, he thought he should wait until his mother raised those topics herself. She was the one who carried that pain. He wouldn’t force her to recall it. What he most wanted was for her to be happy, for however much time they had left.

Lusia made a scooping gesture toward the children. “Come along then. Are you going to pester the grownups all day, or are you going to learn how to play marbles from an expert?”

Dervla gasped as if she had entirely forgotten and ran out of the office.

Before he did the same, Marcus spun around to wave to his sister. “Bye-bye, Cari.”

He would want to play with her if she was awake after dinner tonight. Hawke and Fenris had shown him how to cradle her and support her neck, and said yes whenever he asked to, provided he was sitting next to at least one of them and promised to be very careful. He was fascinated by her and seemed to want to prove that he could be responsible.

At the moment, however, Marcus had other priorities, and so he ran out the door after his friend.

“Be good, you two!” Hawke called after them.

A distant “no!” came from the corridor in reply, accompanied by high-pitched giggles. Lusia smiled, with a soft huff of a laugh, and shut the door behind them.

“I would not mind a game of marbles myself,” said Josephine, blotting the ink on a finished letter.

Fenris glanced up at her as he flipped through his book in an attempt to find the page he had been reading. “I wasn’t aware you knew how to play.”

“It has been a while since I had the time," she replied, with an expression that Fenris could only describe as bittersweet. "A long while.”

“Would that have been with Yvette?" Ah, he had found it. Fenris put his thumb on the page and closed the book over it to indicate he was still listening.

“No, Antoine. He was a fair sport, when he was not throwing my dolls into the fountain for a game of sharks and shipwrecks.”

Hawke snorted. “He and Carver would make a right pair.”

“Maker help us if they ever meet.” Josephine stood and gathered up an armful of papers. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must bring these to Leliana. Shall we break for tea when I return?”

They broke for chess, instead. Hawke took Josephine’s place before long. She knew far too well what kinds of tricks would distract Fenris, or at the very least amuse him. He teased her back, and smiled, and marveled at the strength of their daughter’s grip on his finger. When the scrape of heavy wood on stone and the rising tide of voices from the Great Hall indicated that dinner had been served, Fenris helped Hawke tie the blanket into a sling and nestle Carina inside.

He was the last to exit Josephine’s office. As soon as he stepped out of the corridor and into the Great Hall, a tiny force barreled into him and hugged his leg, and began to relay everything his nana had taught him and Dervla about marbles.

He continued to chatter in between spoonfuls of soup after Fenris found seats for them at the nearest table.

"Daddy, I want to read a new book. Can we please go to the library tomorrow?" 

"Of course." Fenris began to slice Marcus' roast vegetables into smaller pieces.

It was a simple question and answer, an exchange that had been repeated countless times since they had arrived at Skyhold.

Fenris never tired of it.

 


End file.
